MOLLY SLEPT AT HOME THAT NIGHT. I WOULDN’T LET HER GO anywhere, even to Susan’s. I couldn’t. But somehow, by the time Susan and Emily left, I’d agreed that Molly and I would spend the weekend at Nick’s place in the country. Nick and Susan seemed convinced that I should get away, have a view of something other than Charlie’s empty house. A break from responsibilities. Nick insisted that I was to do nothing, not cook, not clean, not plan, not think. I was to pack a minimum and allow Nick to take care of everything.
I went along with the scheme, aware of my uncharacteristic passivity. I didn’t see what difference it made where we were, but I didn’t argue. My body was limp and drained. I was weak, nonverbal, slow to react. I found it difficult to form clear thoughts. I couldn’t imagine standing up, let alone fixing dinners and breakfasts, doing daily chores for Molly or myself. I’d sunk into a kind of exhaustion I’d never imagined, too tired to swim through it or even to try.
Finally, Susan went home, and Molly was asleep. When I crawled into bed, it felt like almost morning, but the clock said just twelve-thirty. I remember falling onto my soft, cool pillow, the fluffy comforter folding over me, Nick tucking me in. Nick? Why was he still there? And why was I so glad to see him? He talked about his home in the country, about escaping. About fireplaces. About pine trees and fresh air. It seemed natural, as if he belonged.
I remember thinking, falling into sleep, that before I left I’d have to call someone to say where I was going. Michael? No, Michael and I were divorced. Weren’t we? Then who? No name, no face came to mind. But it was somebody. There was, had to be, someone I had to call. But, drifting, I couldn’t think, couldn’t remember who it was.